


In a Winter Wonderland

by kingaofthewoods



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 10:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingaofthewoods/pseuds/kingaofthewoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a Christmas party at 221b Baker Street, Lestrade attempts to engage Molly Hooper in some harmless flirtation. Boy, is he in for a surprise!</p><p>Post-Reichenbach shameless Christmas fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Winter Wonderland

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Рождество в Стране чудес](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081561) by [OneChanceToLive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneChanceToLive/pseuds/OneChanceToLive)



Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade never would have thought that he’d ever again be able to go to another Christmas get together at 221b Baker Street, and yet here he is, once again listening to Sherlock Holmes playing the bloody violin as if he’d never fallen from the roof of a four story building.

At first sight it seems that nothing at all has changed. The flat looks virtually untouched, Sherlock’s morbid paraphernalia strewn about in controlled chaos, but the distinct lack of John’s possessions is enough indication that the place hasn’t been quite so resistant to the forces of time.

There are other subtle details that differentiate this particular celebration from the one of three years past. Sherlock, though still as posh and well-groomed as ever, looks a bit haggard around the edges; John’s Christmas jumper does nothing to improve the gaunt look on his face; and Mrs Hudson looks small and frail as her eyes follow Sherlock’s frantic movements as if she’s not quite sure he’s not going to disappear. There is no girlfriend for John this time, but he’s brought his dog with him, and now the little bugger starts growling at Sherlock as he passes too close to his master.

Lestrade himself hasn’t stayed the same either. Divorced, demoted and guilty, he feels as if he’s aged a decade during the last three years. Still, he thinks, no man is too old to appreciate a lovely woman when he sees one, and that’s what Molly Hooper has become recently, the only person out of their sad bunch who seems to have changed for the better instead of for the worse.

It’s not like she hasn’t been a lovely woman before, she has. He remembers that little black dress fondly, even though in comparison it’s obvious that she had overdone it a bit for that particular Christmas party. Now, though, she looks exquisite in an understated grey dress and a green cashmere cardigan. Her hair flows freely, swept to the side, and her smile is soft and self-assured at the same time. In one word, she’s blooming.

No one can really blame him if he flirts with her a bit. Well, a lot, actually.

“You look lovely today, Molly,” he tells her, trying for his best boyish smile. (He’s told it still works even though he’s pushing fifty.)

Her response is promising. “Er, um, thank you,” she titters over her glass of wine. “Ah, funny that we should meet again in these circumstances, isn’t it? You probably never thought there would be another Christmas party at Baker Street, what with Sherlock being… dead… and – “ She falters, belatedly realizing what she’s saying.

“Molly,” comes Sherlock’s warning.

“Yes, God, sorry,” she mutters and gulps down her wine. “Me and my mouth. It won’t stop.”

“That’s okay,” Lestrade assures her, faintly amused. “It must have been difficult for your mouth for all those years, though.”

“What?”

“Well, with keeping it all hush-hush. There must have been a lot of lip-biting involved,” he says, eyes straying to the lips in question.

She gives him a nervous little giggle. “Yes, well…”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock snaps from across the room. “Lestrade, stop flirting with her!”

“Sherlock!” John hisses angrily. “He can flirt with whoever he likes!”

“Thank you, John,” bites Lestrade, mildly irritated, and a tad mortified, because, well, flirting works best when it’s implied, and not stated outright. “Besides, Molly doesn’t mind, do you?” Well, at least he hopes she doesn’t.

Molly looks a bit flushed, but before she can answer either way, Sherlock interrupts again.

“It doesn’t matter whether she minds or not, because you’re not getting into Molly Hooper’s bed tonight,” he proclaims with a smirk.

“Shut up, Sherlock!” snaps John.

“Oh, Sherlock,” scolds Mrs Hudson. “A man should be more delicate – “

But Lestrade is incensed. What a bloody wanker! It’s not enough that he’d made a fool out of poor Molly the last time she was here, he has to go and humiliate her again even after all that she’s done for him? He can’t help the rise of righteous fury on her behalf.

“How dare you talk about her like this?” he growls. “Can you ever learn to keep your bloody nose out of other people’s business?!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’ve forgotten how stupid you can be, Lestrade,” he scoffs. “Look at her _hand_! It’s so obvious you can’t possibly miss it!”

Against his better judgment he darts a glance at Molly’s left hand and there it is, a lovely ring glittering on her third finger. An obviously expensive yet tasteful engagement ring.

Molly smiles sheepishly and wriggles her fingers at John and Mrs Hudson.

“Oh!” cries Mrs Hudson delightedly. “Congratulations, dear!”

But John and Lestrade are looking between Molly and Sherlock in shared disbelief. Sherlock catches their looks and rolls his eyes again.

“No, it’s not _me_ , for God’s sake.”

Molly giggles. “Sorry,” she tells Lestrade, eyes full of mirth. “I would have let you down gently, but – “

He gives her a pained smile. “Right, well.”

“Congratulations, Molly,” John calls, genuinely pleased and amused. “I’m glad you’re happy. He must be a nice bloke.”

Sherlock snorts. Molly sends him a look.

“He is,” she says firmly, then flashes them another bright smile. “Does anyone want another drink? Oh, sorry.”

It’s her phone. The look in her eyes when she picks up tells Lestrade that he really doesn’t stand a chance.

“Hello? Yes, wait a mo – “

He stares after her as she disappears into the kitchen.

“Oh, that’s so nice,” gushes Mrs Hudson. “She’s such a lovely girl, I’m glad she’s found someone. Is he a good man, Sherlock?”

The detective twists his lips as if he’s just eaten a lemon. He’s saved from answering by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. To Lestrade’s astonishment, the person who enters the room is none other than Sherlock’s creepy brother, Mycroft.

Sherlock’s reaction is instantaneous. “Are we going to have family Christmas celebrations now?”

The other Holmes surveys the room in disdain. “It would seem so, dear brother,” he quips, shrugging off his coat and scarf. “Although I would appreciate it if next year’s would be held at my place instead of this bohemian hovel. Good evening, John, Mrs Hudson, Inspector Lestrade.”

Lestrade nods, not quite sure about this sudden development. This is the fourth time he has seen Mycroft Holmes and somehow it still seems like four times too many. He cringes as Mycroft hangs up his coat and umbrella and walks smoothly across the room to sit down on the sofa. He looks a bit out of place underneath the yellow smiley, but it doesn’t seem to make a cinch in his perfect posh armour.

“Didn’t think you’d show up,” John comments tightly. There seems to be no love lost between the two men, and rightly so, Lestrade thinks viciously. The Holmes brothers – outrageous manipulative bastards, the two of them.

“Neither did I,” Mycroft answers evenly. “Until I was persuaded otherwise.”

“You’ll find that you arrived just in time,” says Sherlock, and his expression speaks of unholy glee. “Lestrade has been poaching on your territory.”

Mycroft’s cold eyes flick to Lestrade. “Has he now?” he drawls disinterestedly.

“Yes, very successfully, I might add.”

The look he is now being subjected to can only be paradoxically described as hostile indifference. Despite himself, Lestrade shifts uneasily where he stands and lifts an eyebrow, not understanding.

“Oh, Sherlock, stop it!” comes Molly’s voice from the kitchen. She emerges with a new glass of wine in one hand and a tumbler of whisky in the other, her exasperation clearly written across her lovely face. “Stop winding him up.”

She crosses the room, sits down on the sofa next to Mycroft, not touching, but still far too close for it  to mean anything else than what it does, and hands him the tumbler with a small smile.

“Thank you,” he answers pleasantly, pointedly ignoring the deathly silence in the room.

“It’s the least I can do after I’ve made you come,” Molly says matter-of-factly.

The sound of John inhaling his brandy is like a gun shot.

“Oh, God,” Molly groans.

“Quite,” Mycroft speaks, amused. “John, are you quite all right? What seems to be the problem?”

“It’s you?!” sputters John. “ _You_ ’re Molly’s fiancé?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, John, thank you for stating the obvious.”

Lestrade’s head is spinning. Molly is blushing furiously, the hand not holding a wine glass clenching and unclenching on her thigh, which is jumping in tact with her nervousness. To him she looks ready to burst into an avalanche of awkwardness, and he can see it in his mind’s eye, the flood of inappropriate words and stuttering that’s bound to come from between those lovely lips. He’s ready to cringe in sympathy and second-hand embarrassment, but, to his surprise, the outburst never comes.

Mycroft turns towards her fractionally, inclining his head, his words flippant, but his gaze pointed. “Molly, I believe you… mentioned… you had prepared gifts.”

“Oh!” she chirps happily, her focus redirected. “Yes, the presents! Thank you for remembering!”

“It would be hard not to,” he answered, one eyebrow shooting up. Molly snorts and rolls her eyes, but when she stands up to walk over to the package full of presents she brought with her, her hand reaches out and lingers on Mycroft’s knee. The gesture looks so natural, yet so out of place that Lestrade gets a whiplash. Apparently, that’s also the extent of John’s tolerance.

“Wait, is this for real?” he demands, blinking excessively, his head snapping back and forth from Molly and Mycroft to Sherlock, who appears disgusted.

Mycroft recovers first. “Is there a _problem_ , John?”

“No, no, of course not, it’s just…” John laughs nervously. “You’re kidding, right?”

“You’ll find I don’t often _kid_ , Doctor Watson,” the elder Holmes answers coldly.

“But - ! You and Molly Hooper?” John bludgeons on, incredulous. “Really?”

“It is a bit unexpected, isn’t it?” Mrs Hudson titters into her glass.

“Yes, thank you!” John nods vehemently. “You’re having us on, aren’t you?”

Lestrade snatches a look at Molly. It seems that whatever Mycroft has done to calm her down is no longer effective. She’s frozen, standing ramrod straight and stricken next to the sofa, looking ready to bolt. Lestrade experiences an unpleasant flashback to a Christmas party of three years past. It seems that the more things change, the more they stay the same: Molly Hooper is destined to be humiliated on Christmas, though this time, unexpectedly, the villain responsible for it has changed.

“Doctor Watson, if you’re quite finished – “

“Is it really so hard to imagine, John?” Molly interrupts sadly.

“What - ?”

“Is it so hard to imagine someone would actually want to be with me?”

John has the decency to look ashamed. “That’s not what I – “

“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain yourself,” she shakes her head, then turns to Mycroft. “I’ll just… I’m sorry, I’m making a spectacle of myself again… I think it’ll be better if I just…”

She doesn’t finish, just purses her lips in pained exasperation and ducks her head, before turning on her heel and making for the exit.

“Molly,” Mycroft calls after her mildly. She stops in front of the doorway, and looks back over her shoulder. To Lestrade’s unease, Mycroft stands up from the sofa, straightening his jacket. “Doctor Watson is not being cruel, just extremely narrow-minded.” He walks over to her slowly, and she turns to face him. “And I thought I made myself clear earlier today, but it seems that words are not enough.”

With that he reaches out and cradles Molly’s cheek in his hand, long fingers slipping into her hair, and then he bents low to kiss her softly on the lips.

Lestrade blinks, but the image doesn’t change: Mycroft Holmes is indeed kissing Molly Hooper. The kiss is not overly heated, but it’s sensual, and Lestrade feels the change in the room’s atmosphere in his bones. Apparently, he’s not the only person who’s uncomfortable.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock, who has been curiously silent throughout the whole scene, now cries in disdain. “Will you stop it? You’re making me ill.”

Mycroft presses one last lingering kiss to Molly’s mouth and then straightens himself haughtily. “Jealous, little brother? I know you’re out of practice, but you should try it one of these days. After all, it’s tradition.”

“What - ?” Molly squeaks intelligently, looking dazed.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and gestures up. Lestrade’s eyes snap to where he’s pointing and indeed, there is a sprig of mistletoe hanging above the threshold.

Mrs Hudson bursts into a delighted giggle, but Lestrade is too distracted by Molly to pay her any notice. She’s looking up at Mycroft with a quiet, radiant smile that speaks more than a hundred words.

That one’s completely sold, he thinks in wonder.

“If we’re quite finished with the drama,” Mycroft comments loftily, “I do believe those presents are long overdue.”

And judging from the hand that stays on the small of her back as she falls into the flurry of gift-giving, the sentiment is fully reciprocated.

Oh, well, Lestrade muses wryly, knocking back his drink, there’s plenty of other fish in the sea.


End file.
